The Night Circus: Part V

Our revels now are ended.

These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d tow’rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind.

You do not wait long in the antechamber before passing through the beaded curtain.

She refers to things she could not know with uncanny specificity.

She tells you facts you already knew. Information you might have guessed. Possibilities you cannot fathom.

The stars on the table almost seem to move in the undulating candlelight. Shifting and changing before your eyes.

The house is in a state of disarray, or as much disarray as a house crammed from floor to ceiling with antiques and books and objets d’art can be in its inherent cozy, cluttered way.

“The circus was never mine to begin with,” Chandresh mutters.
“Of course it was,” Poppet says, drawing a swirling letter P. “It was your idea. But I know you don’t have time for it, and I thought it might be best if you relinquished your position as proprietor.”

“The circus was never mine to begin with,” Chandresh mutters.
“Of course it was,” Poppet says, drawing a swirling letter P. “It was your idea. But I know you don’t have time for it, and I thought it might be best if you relinquished your position as proprietor.”

Chandresh considers this for a moment, but then he nods and walks over to the desk to read through the contract.
“You have Ethan and Lainie listed here, but not Tante Padva,” he says as he peruses it.

“What’s in that bag?” Chandresh asks, eyeing it with a certain amount of trepidation.

His mind is clear, the plans for the museum becoming cohesive, ideas for future projects aligning themselves in ways that seem completely manageable.

"Stories have changed, my dear boy,” the man in the grey suit says, his voice almost imperceptibly sad.

The image in the glass, which could be a grey-haired man in a finely tailored coat, or could be an amalgamation of reflections from customers and waiters and bent and broken light from the street, ripples slightly before becoming completely indistinguishable.

The man in the grey suit leans into the table, as though he might whisper his words conspiratorially, but the tenor of his voice does not change.

“Not a one of them even has an inkling of the things that are possible in this world, and what’s worse is that none of them would listen if you attempted to enlighten them. They want to believe that magic is nothing but clever deception, because to think it real would keep them up at night, afraid of their own existence.”

“You tell stories?” the man asks, the piquing of his interest almost palpable.

While before his interest level bordered on indifferent, now he looks at Widget as a child might look at a new toy, or the way a wolf would regard a particularly interesting piece of prey, scarlet-clad or otherwise.

While before his interest level bordered on indifferent, now he looks at Widget as a child might look at a new toy, or the way a wolf would regard a particularly interesting piece of prey, scarlet- clad or otherwise.

You’d be better off letting the whole endeavor fade away into myth and oblivion.

You’d be better off letting the whole endeavor fade away into myth and oblivion.

“It is of no further use to you. It holds a great deal of importance to me. I will not be dissuaded. Name your price.”

Wine is bottled poetry, he thinks. It is a sentiment he first heard from Herr Thiessen, but he knows it is properly attributed to another writer, though at the moment he cannot recall who, exactly.

You are faced with the conundrum of how to fill the remaining minutes of the night.

Beneath the clock, there is an unobtrusive silver plaque.